


Distraction

by eyra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, M/M, Porn, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Slash, just porn, submissive sirius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyra/pseuds/eyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is bored to tears, there's a vaguely familiar guy giving him the eye from across the bar, and it's all set to the sound of an old man playing bad Neil Diamond covers on a ukulele.</p><p>Alternatively, Sirius and Remus getting hot and heavy in a bathroom stall down the local pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sirius swears under his breath as he drops the stack of beer mats he’s been playing with for the past half hour. They scatter across the cluttered bar table, earning him another pitying glance from Mrs Potter. James has long since ditched them, scuttling off into the crowd like a sniffer dog on the hunt for Lily and her friends, leaving Sirius slouching miserably at the end of the Potters’ booth, half listening to their conversation with the Prewetts on the other side of the table about the new Waitrose in town. It’s fucking boring, but it’s marginally less painful than tuning into the old guy across the room strumming out Neil Diamond covers on a battered ukulele with a horribly low quality pre-recorded percussive backing track echoing out of the bar’s tinny speakers. He’s not even playing the hits – strictly the B-sides, and he’s not exactly holding the room.

Sighing, Sirius turns away from the Potters, his eyes landing on a guy around his own age sitting on a stool just to the left of the ukulele guy’s makeshift stage. He looks vaguely familiar to Sirius, with his sandy hair, pale skin, full lips and an uninterested, slightly scornful set to his brow. Perhaps he was a friend of a friend at school, or maybe he used to work in the corner shop when they were teenagers. It’s Sirius’s first time back at their local since he graduated and moved home, and he’s already having trouble remembering who everyone is.

The vaguely familiar boy looks even more bored than Sirius feels, nursing the dregs of a pint and staring with glazed eyes at a point on the beer-stained carpet as an older guy – his father, at a guess – is having what looks to be a heated conversation with another pub-goer, gesturing animatedly at the flat-screen above the bar silently showing Everton vs. Manchester City.

Sirius drags his gaze lazily back to the boy and finds bored amber eyes staring right into his own. They hold contact for a moment, not-quite-Neil Diamond launching into an off-key attempt at _The Last Picasso_ , until the boy’s father nudges him and points at the game, presumably wanting his opinion on whatever he and his drinking partner are in disagreement over.

“Anyone want another?” Sirius asks his booth unenthusiastically, to a murmured “no thank you, dear” from the adults and a pat on the arm from James’s mum.

“He’s probably just in the next room, love,” she suggests softly, in what’s clearly a very thinly veiled request for Sirius to bugger off and stop being so miserable. He gives her a weak smile and hauls himself off the bench, wandering over to the bar and hoisting himself up onto one of the high barstools whilst he waits to get the barman’s attention. He orders another pint of the cheapest beer on tap, glancing over his shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to spot his best mate in the crowd.

James is nowhere to be seen – but the boy with amber eyes is staring at him. Again.

Sirius holds his gaze, again, and he sees the boy’s eyes lower to give him a quick once-over. Sirius’s stomach twists pleasantly, and he turns back to his pint with a smirk on his face.

***

The ukulele player has moved onto massacring some of the lesser-known Bee Gees tracks by the time Sirius reaches the bottom of his pint glass. He sighs heavily, checking his watch. It’s only 9:15, which means he’s got at least another two hours of this shit before the Potters retire and he can go home. He could, he reasons, feign a headache or a sudden bout of sickness and sack the rest of them off, but sitting at home by himself whilst everyone else is down the pub would surely be even more depressing than propping up the bar alone, so he orders another drink and resigns himself to sticking it out as the opening chords of _Wish You Were Here_ drift depressingly over the sound system.

Someone somewhere drops what sounds like a whole tray of drinks, and Sirius turns at the accompanying raucous cheer. He sees a rabble of middle-aged guys over by the stage laughing and jostling their red-faced friend who looks to be wearing about three pints. Then he sees the boy with the full lips, alone now, walking across the room towards where Sirius sits at the bar. They hold eye contact as before, and Sirius feels a familiar warmth pool between his legs as the guy cocks his head _so_ slightly in the direction of the Gents’ bathroom. He doesn’t stop when he reaches Sirius – he doesn’t even slow. He simply walks straight past and disappears behind the door into the corridor.

It’s hardly the first time Sirius has done this. Half his university career was spent on hook ups in the Student Union loos. Granted, he at least usually knew the first name of the guy he was blowing, and he didn’t have Mr and Mrs Potter sitting not fifteen feet away on the other side of a paper-thin wall, but honestly fuck this and the painful rendition of _How Deep Is Your Love_ currently assaulting his eardrums.

Throwing back what remains of his third pint, Sirius briefly checks the booth to make sure he’s not being watched – which he isn’t – before sliding off the barstool and wandering at a practised, casual pace in the direction of the toilets.

***

The fluorescents overhead don’t do the room any favours. The three stalls are furnished with cheap plywood doors that finish a good foot before the scuffed linoleum that Sirius guesses is older than he is, and the tap nearest the door has dripped since Sirius was 16 but apparently no one cares enough to fix it. Still, he’s fucked around in worse places.

At the very least, Sirius is glad to see that there’s just the one stall currently occupied. He didn’t much fancy an audience tonight.

His jeans feel uncomfortably tight as he crosses to the end cubicle and gently pushes on the door. It gives, and Sirius slips inside before shutting and locking it. As soon as he slides the latch across, he feels a warm body press up behind him and he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to stifle the eager moan the contact wants to drag from him. There’s a hand between his legs already, a palm rubbing hard against his growing erection, hot breath ghosting across his neck as he pushes back into the maddening heat against his backside and hears the boy’s panting catch in his throat.

Sirius turns, grey eyes meeting amber and wide, blown pupils as the other boy hurriedly begins unfastening his own jeans. Sirius does the same, popping the button and unashamedly tugging his own underwear down beneath his balls so his hardening cock springs free. They both take a second to drink each other in before the boy is on him again, crowding him against the side of the stall and pushing his own erection against Sirius, his mouth back on Sirius’s neck as his right hand grips the top of the cubicle wall.

“ _Fuck,_ ” breathes Sirius softly, his heart hammering beneath his t-shirt as the boy works his free hand between Sirius and the wall to tug his underwear down further, a warm finger slipping between Sirius’s cheeks and stroking firmly at his hole.

“Shut up,” the other boy whispers coarsely, pressing himself against Sirius with enough force to make the cubicle groan under their weight. They’re rubbing easily together now, everything hot and hard and wet with pre-come – Sirius doesn’t know whose – and he drives himself wantonly back against that dry finger until he feels the burn as it breaches him.

The boy must understand what Sirius wants, because without a word he’s drawing his hand back and sucking on that same finger quickly, coating it in his spit before he slips it back down behind Sirius and pushes, hard.

Sirius gasps. The burn is _exquisite._ He’s panting already as the boy begins to pump his finger in and out, their frotting forgotten for a moment as Sirius’s eyes roll back in his head and he concentrates on thrusting back to meet the boy’s hand. He knows how he must look – face flushed, dick hard and leaking, legs spread a little as he opens up for a boy whose name he hasn’t even bothered to ask but God, he loves it.

He can’t help the groan that spills from his lips when the boy pulls his finger out quickly a moment later, his hole suddenly empty and bereft. He opens his eyes to swollen lips and a flush to match Sirius’s high on the boy’s cheeks as a warm hand wraps around both of them, slick and fast and hard.

Sirius leans forward, one hand wrapping tight around the back of the boy’s neck as he sucks eagerly at the pale skin just below his jawline. He’s close already – a whole summer of no action but your own hand will do that to a guy, Sirius reasons – and he doesn’t even try bite back the soft, keening sounds the boy is working from him as he strokes him quickly towards completion.

And then the door outside swings open, and a pair of heavy footsteps trudge across the room to the urinals, a whistled attempt at _First Of May_ barely masking Sirius’s urgent whimper into the taller boy’s neck as the hand around his cock stills and another hand comes up to grab at his messy hair, effectively holding him in place until the sound of a zip being pulled up is followed by the gushing of a tap on the other side of the door. Just a few more seconds and the stranger will leave, and Sirius can moan to his heart’s content, and… it’s a few seconds too long. Sirius sinks his teeth into the juncture of the boy’s neck and shoulder as his cock jerks and spills messily between them, his moan only partially muffled by the boy’s pale skin as the tap outside quiets and the man leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.

Sirius sags against the warm body holding him up, panting heavily from the exertion of trying to hold back what had been, all things considered, a spectacular orgasm, albeit a quick one. His ears are ringing and when he opens his eyes again, he sees the beginnings of what will be an impossible-to-disguise bruise forming on the boy’s otherwise unmarked skin.

“Oops,” he murmurs dazedly, ready to apologise when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, coaxing him purposefully to his knees where he’s met with the fucking _delicious_ sight of the taller boy’s leaking erection, slick and messy with Sirius’s come, and he doesn’t hesitate before leaning in and taking him all the way down.

He moans dirtily again when he feels the boy bring both hands to grasp at Sirius’s hair, long fingers twining in the messy strands until he’s gripping hard and guiding Sirius’s mouth forcefully, and Sirius’s own cock may be hanging spent between his legs but this, _this_ brings the heat rushing back because he fucking _loves_ this. It hurts, a lot, as the boy pulls on his hair and pushes his cock against the back of Sirius’s throat and Sirius knows that reasonably, he should be all kinds of affronted and hurt that this virtual stranger is being so presumptuous in dominating him like this but _Christ_ , this is what gets Sirius off. It’s not something he’s ever shared with anyone who wasn’t involved – he’d never tell James, for example – but ever since he’d asked Benjy Fenwick to slap him, hard, after Sirius had let the older boy come across his face and Sirius, in turn, had literally come in his pants, he’s known that this is his weak spot.

And he has absolutely no interest in delving into the reasoning behind that fact, thank you very much. He suspects a psychologist would have a fucking field day with Sirius’s sexual preferences.

He’s breathing hard through his nose as he rests both hands on the other boy’s thighs for balance, and he can feel tears beginning to jewel at the corners of his eyes as the grip in his hair gets tighter and tighter until it’s pulling urgently, coaxing Sirius off just in time. The boy spurts hot and thick across Sirius’s cheeks, and there’s a soft groan from above as Sirius lets his mouth fall open, catching the salty liquid on his tongue before swallowing it down. He wipes carefully at his eyes with the back of his hand, panting hard, then leans in to lap hungrily at the boy’s messy, softening cock. The obscene sounds of Sirius’s mouth fill the stall until he’s sure the other boy is clean, and eventually he stands on unsteady legs to lean heavily against the wall of the cubicle.

He catches the boy staring at him. He knows he’s a fucking mess right now, and honestly after that performance he wouldn’t be surprised if the guy threw a fiver his way on the way out but he’s beyond caring. He stares back, his eyes lidded and his skin already feeling tight with drying come.

It’s the other boy who eventually breaks contact, leaning across to grab a wad of toilet roll from the dispenser. He hands some to Sirius before wiping quickly between his own legs, using another sheet to clean the worst of the mess off his hands.

“Thanks,” he murmurs quietly, throwing the tissues into the loo and buttoning his jeans back up.

Sirius nods, still leaning bodily against the wall as he dabs futilely at a spot of come that’s caught the bottom of his t-shirt. He gives up, throwing his own wad of tissue into the toilet bowl and pressing the flush down.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice still a little breathless and already a little hoarse. “No worries.”

There’s another lingering gaze, the other boy’s eyes unashamedly flicking downwards as he appears to drink in Sirius’s ruined state. He hasn’t even pulled his underwear back up yet, for God’s sake, and he again tries desperately hard not to read into why it is that he’s getting off on standing here in silence and allowing the other boy to just _look_ at him.

At length the boy seems to have had his fill and he turns as if to leave. He steps past Sirius, reaching for the latch of the stall door and Sirius watches as he hesitates, his hand resting on the door handle. After a long moment, he turns back to face Sirius.

“We’re in here most Wednesdays,” he offers. “Watching the match.”

Sirius smirks, and then the boy really does leave, and Sirius tucks himself back into his jeans before slipping out of the cubicle and cleaning off his face with a handful of wet paper towels from the dispenser on the wall.

When he walks back into the bar thirty seconds later, the boy with the amber eyes is nowhere to be seen, and the man with the ukulele is dolefully strumming the final bars of _Morning Of My Life_.

Sirius wanders back over to his barstool, smiling softly at the slight burn he feels when he sits down, and orders another pint.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this is. But I hope you enjoyed it. x


	2. Chapter 2

_“Coming up in half an hour on ITV, it’s Leeds United facing Ipswich Town in their second match of the new season. But first, it’s over to Mary and Alastair for the news.”_

Sirius glances at the clock. Then at James, sprawled on the other sofa, listlessly flicking through his Twitter feed. He glances at the clock again. Then at the TV. Then at his own crotch. Then back at James.

“Pub?” he ventures, aiming for casual and hoping James doesn’t sense the silent “ _so I can get another handjob in the Gents”_ that his mind helpfully follows with. They’ve always been frighteningly good, Mrs Potter says, at knowing what the other is thinking, but this is one occasion where Sirius is praying their brotherly psychic connection or whatever fails to kick in.

James huffs out a bored breath, finally looking up from his phone.

“Yeah, go on then.”  
 

***

It takes James precisely eleven minutes to locate his left shoe, and Sirius tries not to look too impatient as he lingers by the door, his jeans already feeling a little tight. It’s a ten minute walk to the old stone free house, during which James witters on about something that Lily said one time about something or someone or whatever, Sirius isn’t listening. It’s another four minutes before they get served at the bar, two minutes to linger hopefully by their usual table until the barely-eighteen-year-old girls occupying it get the hint and clear off, and then the barman picks up the remote and flicks the TV on, just in time to see the opposing team captains shake hands.

“Who do you reckon then?”

Sirius stops scanning the bar to blink dumbly at James.

“Huh?”

“For the match,” James prompts, nodding at the screen. “Leeds? Probably will be. Murray’s been _insane_ this year. Like that friendly against Bournemouth? Unbelievable. And Ipswich’s defence is all over the place, I don’t know what they’re playing at. I saw this thing on Twitter that said-”

Sirius zones out. He loves James, bless his little heart, but he’s got bigger fish to fry than Alex Murray’s right foot tonight so he nods and _hmms_ in all the right places but the whole time he’s looking everywhere except the flatscreen. The pissed-up middle aged guys from last week are back, already well on their way to another round-on-the-floor situation. The ukulele man is absent – _thank Jesus,_ Sirius thinks – and the usual crowd of football fans are lining the bar waiting for kick off. There’s a shabby-looking man in the corner sharing a pint with his equally shabby-looking terrier, whilst Audrey from the Post Office holds court in the largest booth in the place, her blue-rinsed contemporaries gossiping about something or other that’s of absolutely zero interest to Sirius because the boy with the pouty lips and the sandy hair is nowhere to be bloody seen.

“So do you think she would?”

Sirius drags his gaze back to James, who is looking at him expectantly, his pint already half gone.

“Think who would?”

“Think Lily would come watch the match with us?” James presses, his voice uncertain as he waits for Sirius’s reassurance and of course the conversation’s come round to sodding Lily again. What a swift return to form from James, Sirius muses, whose attention span these days is at most sixty seconds before he’s back onto wondering what Lily’s favourite season is or who Lily is listening to on her iPod this week or where the incomparable Lily Evans gets her bloody car serviced because _maybe I could like, Google how to fix cars, y’know? And then I could offer to fix hers for her, and I reckon she’d probably take me out for a drink afterwards to say thank you, wouldn’t she Pads?_

“I dunno James. Probably,” Sirius shrugs, his tone impatient. “Why don’t you just text her and ask?”

James nods, fumbling for his phone in his jeans pocket. “Yeah,” he agrees, typing furiously. “Yeah, you’re right.”

_Poor sod._

  
***

Sirius is three pints down when the referee blows the whistle for half-time, but much to his frustration he’s just shy of the level of tipsy required to tune out the absolute dross currently coming from the other side of the table. Lily’s showed up, of course, much to James’s very obvious excitement and Sirius’s hopefully not too obvious dismay. She’s banging on about some new band she heard on YouTube last night and James is, as always, hanging on her every word, insipidly agreeing with everything she says and gushing out some shit about lyrical symbolism and tambourines and Sirius is ready to put his head through the window, he really is.

“Yeah, completely!” James nods emphatically at whatever Lily’s saying, his eyes wide and slightly manic. “They’re just _so_ original. So _authentic_ , y’know?”

_Oh shut up, you great bellend._

Sirius sighs to himself, swigging on the dregs of his lager and he figures he should at least be _attempting_ to hide his exasperation over his best friend’s wankiness. The stupid thing is, Evans so obviously fancies James just as much as James fancies her, but apparently they’re both too dense to have an adult conversation about it, which means the rest of the world – or Sirius, at least – is forced to repeatedly bear excruciating witness to whatever tragic interpretation of courtship they’ve been attempting since last Christmas. Sirius thinks it’d probably be funny if it wasn’t so damn annoying.

He’s just about to sack the whole thing off and walk home by himself when the bell over the main entrance jingles happily through James and Lily’s inane chatter, and Sirius looks over to see the old oak door swinging open. The last rays of warm evening sunlight from the street outside spill through the doorway, but their natural beauty is entirely eclipsed for Sirius by the tall, freckly boy who steps over the threshold in a faded grey t-shirt.

Their eyes meet immediately, and Sirius wonders vaguely if the other boy knew he’d be waiting. The satisfied tug at the corner of the boy’s mouth is barely noticeable as he looks away, and the set of his brow is back to stoic and unimpressed by the time he and his dad take their drinks to find a table at the back of the room.

Sirius’s foot taps uncontrollably against the leg of his stool. The anticipation of earlier rushes back, and he bites his lip as he sets his empty pint glass down on the table with an unsteady hand. He can feel the other boy’s eyes on him. It’s almost _tangible_ ; heated amber pinning Sirius in place. He stays still, heart racing as he stares unseeingly at the ring of condensation on the beermat where James’s drink had just been, and it’s a good minute before he dares to meet the other boy’s gaze. And it’s fucking _electric._

There’s a loud cheer from the herd of drunken guys in the corner as the half-time show runs a replay of a particularly daring tackle from the first half, and the other boy looks away, taking a swig from his beer and leaning in to mutter something to his father. The older man waves his hand dismissively, his own eyes fixed on the television as the players return to the pitch, and then the boy is sliding out of their booth and walking purposefully in the direction of the Gents.

 _Thank you Jesus,_ Sirius thinks, his cock immediately beginning to stiffen in his jeans.

And suddenly Lily isn’t entirely without purpose, because as long as she’s talking and giggling and flipping her obnoxiously bright orange hair over her purposefully-but-tastefully exposed shoulder, James is completely oblivious to the outside world and Sirius doesn’t even bother to excuse himself as he slides off his stool and disappears into the crowd.

  
***

The door of the end stall has barely swung shut when Sirius enters the bathroom, and his hands are shaking again as he pushes on the handle and slips inside. He’s on the other boy immediately, breath coming hot and fast as he mouths frenziedly at the boy’s pale neck. A hand comes up to fist at the back of his t-shirt, pulling him closer and forcing their groins together, hard, and it isn’t until Sirius lets out an honest to God whimper that he realises he’s actually _trembling_ against the other boy’s tall frame.

“Jesus,” the boy whispers, stepping back a little to look at Sirius. “Calm down.”

His words aren’t unkind, and there’s humour in his eyes instead of the detachment from before as he takes Sirius by the shoulders and holds him at arm’s length.

“Are you alright?”

Sirius nods quickly.

"Juts get on with it," he whispers, his breathing more ragged than it reasonably should be not thirty seconds into the action. And then the boy’s long fingers are on the button of Sirius’s jeans, tugging the fly open and Sirius exhales unsteadily as a warm palm wraps around him, stroking firmly. His own hands come up to grasp urgently at the other boy’s shoulders, his teeth digging painfully into his bottom lip as he leans in to press his damp forehead into the boy’s neck.

“Come on,” mutters the other boy encouragingly, his hand speeding up to an almost painful friction around Sirius’s leaking cock and Sirius might be vaguely embarrassed at being on the brink of coming already if he could think straight, which he absolutely can't. He’s not even usually _like_ this. Self-control may not exactly be Sirius’s strong suit, and he might squirm and moan and whimper like a bitch sometimes but it’s been a long while since he got this worked up over a simple handjob and right now, he’s fully blaming the anticipation and the alcohol. And maybe something about the way this boy unconsciously runs a pale hand through his sandy hair after every sip of his pint. Maybe something about that.

Sirius whines low and long in the back of his throat when he comes, heat spilling from his cock to paint the other’s boys fingers as Sirius sags against him, hands still grasping loosely as his grey t-shirt.

“Alright?” whispers the other boy against Sirius’s ear after a long moment.

Sirius just nods. He stays there, his breath gradually slowing before he pushes back and raises his eyes hesitantly. The other boy is watching him with an expression that Sirius can’t quite read. There might be kindness there. There might even be something akin to _awe_. There’s definitely lust – Sirius recognises that when he sees it – but there’s something else in the way the boy holds his gaze for just a moment too long, and Sirius finds himself unsettled in his inability to read it.

Then it’s gone, and the boy looks away, eyes fixed on Sirius’s swollen bottom lip. It might be a hint. It might not be. Either way, Sirius barely even thinks as he sinks to his knees automatically on the linoleum, his softening cock staining the denim of his jeans with what’s left of his climax. He swallows, glancing hopefully at the taller boy’s groin.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice still a little breathless as he meets the boy’s eyes again, and there’s a moment of hesitation where Sirius is _sure_ he’s about to leave before pale fingers are tugging on the zip and the boy takes himself in hand, rubbing purposefully. The soft sound of skin-on-skin is like a symphony to Sirius’s ears, tearing through the bloodrush in his head to a place from which Sirius hopes he’ll be able to easily recall it next time he’s in bed and he can’t sleep and he’s got one hand on his cock and the other working slick fingers into his hole. And all on Mrs Potter’s John Lewis sheets, guaranteeing Sirius a fantastic spot in Hell.

He watches as beads of pre-come leak out of the tip of the other boy’s flushed cock, his mouth positively watering at the sight and then there’s a hand in his hair, gripping firmly and holding him in place. It’s tight, painful, and he can already feel his spent cock stirring again as the boy’s wrist picks up speed.

“Open.”

The command comes softly, and Sirius’s compliance is immediate as he parts his lips and looks up into amber eyes, waiting. He doesn’t have to wait long. The other boy strokes himself quickly to completion, holding Sirius’s heated gaze as he empties himself into Sirius’s open mouth, a low groan stuck in the back of his throat. He holds him there by his hair even after he’s finished, and as the haze lifts Sirius’s mind catches up with proceedings to realise that once again, he’s on the floor with his jeans undone, covered in come and, he suspects, looking utterly fucking ruined _._ What _is_ new is the slight, lingering pang of… _something_ he feels when he looks up and sees the other boy still watching him. Guilt? Shame? It’s something different; something that wasn’t there last time, and Sirius doesn’t like it.

It’s a long moment of silence before the boy releases his grip on Sirius’s hair, and Sirius sags back against the cubicle wall feeling, if he’s being honest with himself, rather shitty considering the much-needed orgasm of two minutes ago. It’s a fast, gut-punching comedown and Sirius kind of wishes they’d stayed at home and watched the match on James's TV and eaten the rest of those gingerbread biscuits Mr Potter made yesterday. This just doesn’t feel _good._

“Alright?”

The other boy’s voice is gentle as he crouches down to catch Sirius’s gaze, his jeans already done up, ready to leave, and Sirius attempts a smile.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his tongue tacky with come that’s starting to taste unbearably sour. “Yeah, fine.”

The boy nods, hesitating.

“Ok,” he murmurs softly. With the heat gone, his amber eyes look so  _kind_ and Sirius sort of hates him right now, and he doesn’t want to think about why and he just wants him to _go._

_Just go._

And then he does, and Sirius stays on the floor, and the other boy pauses with his hand on the latch just like last time and quietly says something about next week, and Sirius doesn’t answer, and then the door to the corridor is clicking shut and Sirius is leaning over to spit miserably into the toilet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hadn't even occurred to me to continue with this but pizzaboxchapstick inspired me so here you go. Still don't know what it is, still hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think in the comments! x


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